Garry Spector at Citi Field on one of two occasions that he got to throw out the ceremonial pitch prior to a Mets game.
Yogi Berra’s famous adage is applicable to many pursuits in life. I would like to think that for me, learning ain’t over until my departure from this earth.
My husband, Garry Spector, has a PhD in chemistry from Columbia University. He possesses an encyclopedic knowledge of all things baseball, particularly the sixty-year history of our beloved Mets franchise. He also knows far more about classical music, including opera, than many of us in the industry itself. His knowledge and remembrance of historical events of significance and their respective dates is positively intimidating.
But what my husband doesn’t possess is vanity. He knows so much about all of these subjects because his fascination with them has fueled a lifetime of voracious reading and regular attendance at baseball games, concerts, and operas.
Garry frequently shares anecdotes, facts, and trivia when either the day’s date or a current event triggers his memory of a related event in history. This he does, not to flaunt his vast knowledge, but because of his genuine enthusiasm for the subject at hand.
I would never think nor try to compete with Garry’s comprehensive knowledge, but in our twenty-seven years of marriage, he has seemed delighted to hear my own stories and anecdotes about classical music from my thirty-five years working as a professional musician. He particularly delights in hearing many of the stories I have from my thirty years as a member of the Metropolitan Opera Orchestra.
If Garry has any “blind spots,” he readily admits that there are gaps in his knowledge, particularly of popular culture. It was particularly delightful to be able to fill in one of those “gaps” for him involving baseball—a subject about which I am a novice compared to him.
A life-long follower of the Mets, Garry grew up listening to the radio voice of the late Bob Murphy. Early on in our shared baseball life, I learned that it was Murphy’s voice decrying the famous “It gets by Buckner!” call that is near and dear to Mets fans of all ages. He has casually mentioned some of Murphy’s delightful terminology.
When the subject of a doubleheader came up some years ago, Garry admitted that that was one of Murphy’s expressions that he had never understood.
In single admission doubleheaders, the second game follows shortly after the first game has concluded. On other occasions, like today at Citi Field for example, two separate games with separate admissions are scheduled. This is called a day-night doubleheader—what Bob Murphy referred to as a “Cole Porter affair.”
How thrilling it was for me to be able to fill this infinitesimal gap in his broad and thorough knowledge of all things baseball!
I explained that one of Cole Porter’s most famous tunes was “Night and Day.”
Lady Gaga and Tony Bennett are two of countless artists who have sung and recorded this jazz standard since Cole Porter wrote it in 1932.
There have been only a few times like this where my knowledge of popular culture has served to add meaning or perspective on either baseball or opera. On road trips to see the Mets, we have been at several ballparks where an organist has played the players’ walkup music. There have been times where I smile, knowing the words to the melody the organist plays for specific players and how they serve as a musical commentary to either their name or appearance. These “inside jokes” are mostly lost on Garry.
It doesn’t happen often, but on those occasions when I can “teach” Garry something that he doesn’t know related to baseball, we both enjoy it. As far as we both are concerned, we “ain’t over” learning new things until “it’s over.”
An artist’ rendition of Satchel Paige Negro Leagues Baseball Museum
I watched with interest as Pete Alonso crushed the competition in the 2021 All-Star Game Home Run Derby earlier this month in Denver, Colorado. As a Met fan, I loved it of course, but it had me thinking about seemingly unrelated things: a book I read as an undergraduate and the legendary pitcher Satchel Paige.
I couldn’t take my eyes off of Alonso, realizing that I was witnessing a confident athlete, trusting himself completely, and fully in his “zone.” As a performer, I have experienced that feeling too. But I’ve also know the paralyzing feeling of “stage fright.” I’m guessing Pete has too.
Many of my colleagues are prescribed beta-blockers for controlling the physical manifestations of “nerves” for high profile performances and auditions. I have never taken medication, but I have been given advice for combatting this performance impediment from teachers. I have also developed my own techniques to keep the “negative” effects of adrenaline to a minimum.
A book that was widely read by music performance students of my generation was The Inner Game of Tennis by W. Timothy Gallwey, first published in 1974. Author Barry Green later came out with a “version” for musicians: The Inner Game of Music was released in 1986 while I was in graduate school. But music students in the early 1980s had little difficulty reading The Inner Game of Tennis and “translating” the advice within to instrumental performance applications all on our own.
The basic premise of the book is that if one trains over and over to the point where he or she can consistently perform a particular physical feat, one should then trust the body to do what it is well-trained to do and not let self-critical thoughts subvert the performance. Scientists know that the left hemisphere of the brain controls analytical, critical thinking. Gallwey’s book suggests that, allowed to take over the mental part of the game, these left-brain “corrections” can sabotage one’s performance. This can manifest itself by shallow breathing, a racing heart beat, muscle tension, lack of confidence, increased perspiration, sweaty palms, or just plan underperforming.
Examples of negative left-brain messages might be:
“Don’t forget to exaggerate the follow-through on your backhand!”
“Don’t rush that upcoming passage with all of those sixteenth notes!”
”Don’t rush your serve!”
”I’m worried I’m going to run out of breath before I get to the end of this passage!”
”My opponent has won so many more big matches than me. How can I possibly beat her?”
”My accompanist said that so-and-so is in the audience tonight.”
The book goes on to suggest ways of silencing, or at least turning down the volume of those negative voices. This is the crux of the ”inner game.”
Described in this book and other places is the feeling of “zen” when a performer or athlete is in “the zone”: when he or she is hyper-focused to such an extent that he or she experiences “flow.” When in this state, one is oblivious to external factors: crowd noise, coughing in the audience, one’s own perspiration, even one’s own physical discomfort or pain. He or she has successfully “turned off”—or kept in check—the analytical left-brain’s advice/doubts/caution that can work to hinder his or her performance.
Or perhaps, I thought as I watched him, Pete Alonso was channeling the great Satchel Paige.
What I observed in Pete Alonso’s Home Run Derby spectacle was someone in complete “flow,” confident in his physical abilities and seemingly oblivious to any negative thoughts or any other distractions that might make him “press” or otherwise get in the way of the batting skills that he has worked on and at which he has excelled for many years.
He put complete trust in those skills to serve him as they always have. And they did.
I was amused, as were many others, to see Pete keeping himself loose by unapologetically nodding in time–like a bobble-head–to the sounds of the playlist he had curated for his Derby at-bats, even dancing at times. Perhaps his physical movements served to perpetuate the “groove” he was obviously in and continuing to win at his “inner game” as well. Or perhaps, I thought as I watched him, Pete Alonso was channeling the great Satchel Paige.
A promotional poster featuring Paige’s distinctive windup Negro Leagues Baseball Museum
Last month I had an inspiring road trip with my husband to various places in the Midwest. Visiting the Negro Leagues Baseball Museum had been on my Bucket List for some time, so while we were in Kansas City, we made the pilgrimage there. I would have loved to have spent far longer there, but the size and spacing of the crowds inside the museum–during this period of encouraged social distancing–made me slightly nervous, preventing me from dwelling longer in front of the outstanding displays.
The great pitcher Satchel Paige was certainly well represented in the museum. It was fascinating seeing so many photos of him and the timeline of his career. He was still playing Major League Baseball when he was fifty-nine years old! Thanks to my helpful husband, during the course of our visit, I also learned what “barnstorming” was.
Barnstorming tours provided the perfect stage for Satchel’s showmanship. His gravity-defying windup was eye-catching for sure, but the entertainment didn’t stop there. He often took an exaggerated leisurely stroll to the mound, clowned around, and engaged in trash talk. And Satchel had the “stuff” to back up his swagger.
On the barnstorming tours, one of Satchel’s favorite tricks when he was on the mound was to bring in the outfielders and have the infielders behind him take a seat while he proceeded to strike out the side!
There was a single specific stunt that Satchel was apparently particularly proud of:
According to Paige, an even more famous stunt came during a Negro League World Series game in 1942, when he intentionally walked two batters so that he could face power hitter Josh Gibson with the bases loaded. After taunting Gibson and warning him about where he intended to place each throw, Paige struck him out in three pitches.
This guy would have made the most egregious bat-flipper, swag-chain-wearing, homer-horse-riding ballplayer look like a rank amateur.
I could easily see a bit of Satchel Paige’s theatrical, fun-loving, overly confident barnstorming days in Pete Alonso’s Derby “styling.”
Gregory Siff designed these bats for New York Met Pete Alonso to defend his title in the Home Run Derby. Photo courtesy of Pete Alonso, Lfgm Shop.
You could also say that Alonso was channeling Satchel in the personalization of his weaponry. He commissioned artist Gregory Siff to create bats for him just for the occasion, each one differing slightly from the other. In interviews and during the broadcast of the Derby, Alonso detailed each bat’s unique story and features.
Like Pete, Satchel’s larger-than-life persona extended to his “tools.”
According to Andrews,
Paige typically relied on his scorching fastball to strike out batters, but he gave the pitch a litany of different names including ‘Bat Dodger,’ ‘Thoughtful Stuff’ and ‘Long Tom.’ He was particularly found [sic] of hurling the ‘Bee-Ball’—a pitch with so much zip that it supposedly buzzed like a bee as it sailed into the catcher’s mitt. As the years passed and his power faded, he fell back on an arsenal of trick pitches such as the ‘Midnight Creeper,’ the ‘Wobbly Ball’ and the ‘Whipsy-Dipsy-Do.’ One of his favorites was the ‘Hesitation Pitch,’ which saw him pause mid-delivery to fool batters into swinging early. The throw usually worked like a charm, but Major League managers complained about it so much that it was eventually made illegal.
Perhaps you’ve read somewhere Paige’s advice for “staying young?” It has been reprinted elsewhere, but it is famously etched into his headstone. So while we were in town, we went to Forest Hills Memorial Park Cemetery to find Satchel’s final resting place.
Having recently seen Satchel’s tips, when I saw Pete Alonso’s dance moves—presumably to keep himself loose during the Derby—I instantly thought of Satchel’s third piece of wisdom.
Alonso may have referred to his own moves differently, but couldn’t one argue that Pete was “jangling around gently” as he moved? And is it a stretch to say that by doing so he was keeping his “juices flowing?”
But just maybe Paige “jangled gently” to avoid jangled nerves.
Were Satchel’s “juices” a euphemism for blood—meaning to keep one’s circulation flowing?
Perhaps when Satchel got on base and took a lead off the bag, he “jangled gently” in order to avoid being flat-footed. Jangling could have kept him light on his feet, enabling him to spring, cat-like, back to the base in order to avoid getting tagged out or allowing him to get a good jump when attempting to steal a base. In that case, I saw plenty of jangling from former Met José Reyes.
But just maybe Paige “jangled gently” to avoid jangled nerves.
Maybe keeping his “juices flowing” was a description of Satchel’s strategy for playing his “inner game,” listening to his own inner rhythms, keeping his athletic juices AND positive thoughts “flowing.”
Could this be Satchel putting Rule No.2 to use? Pacifying his mind “with cool thoughts?”
St. Louis Browns pitcher Leroy “Satchel” Paige relaxing in his bullpen rocking chair reading a newspaper during a game, ca. 1952. Photo Credit: Missouri History Museum
The author and her brother with Hank Aaron–a chance encounter outside his San Francisco Hotel, ca. 1973.
Anyone who thinks that Jackie Robinson broke Major League Baseball’s color barrier and acceptance for other ballplayers of color followed closely behind is, of course, sadly mistaken. Baseball is full of disgusting tales of prejudice and inequalities persistent well beyond Robinson’s career.
As much as I have enjoyed reading all of the tributes written in homage to the late Hank Aaron, I feel it’s imperative that his accomplishments be remembered within the context they were achieved.
Hank Aaron was no stranger to white rage throughout his career, but the volume was turned up tremendously as he grew closer to breaking Babe Ruth’s home run record. In various autobiographies and biographies and in published interviews he was unambiguous about the pain and suffering he and his family had suffered because of prevalent racist attitudes:
“April 8, 1974, really led up to turning me off on baseball. It really made me see for the first time a clear picture of what this country is about. My kids had to live like they were in prison because of kidnap threats, and I had to live like a pig in a slaughter camp. I had to duck. I had to go out the back door of the ball parks. I had to have a police escort with me all the time. I was getting threatening letters every single day. All of these things have put a bad taste in my mouth, and it won’t go away. “
The contralto Marion Anderson was arguably the “Jackie Robinson” of the opera world. In 1955, she became the first Black singer to sing a solo role at the Metropolitan Opera. But perhaps more well-known than that debut was her appearance singing at the Lincoln Memorial in Washington, D.C., in 1939 for a crowd of 75,000. She had been denied the venue of Constitutional Hall in Washington by the DAR who cited a “white-artist-only” clause in their contractual agreements for appearances in the building which they owned.
Marian Anderson on the steps of the Lincoln Memorial – April 9, 1939
Like athletes of color, black singers have continued to experience both overt and subtle racism long after Anderson’s MET debut. For some, that has kept them from the opera stage. For others who did have careers, one has to wonder what they endured to get there and what they suffered to remain in the spotlight. Also, was the color of their skin perhaps a reason why some of them are not more widely known? And what voices of perhaps similar beauty and musical excellence were never recognized nor heard?
The previous year saw public outcry over the murder of George Floyd, nation-wide peaceful protests in support of Black Lives Matter, and organizations–including Major League Baseball and the Metropolitan Opera–taking a good hard look at ways that they have been a part of the problem in persistent racism in this country. We have also seen the election of the first Black Senator from Georgia–all very positive events.
But the past year also saw a tone-deaf administration abandon its job of dealing with a pandemic that has been found to disproportionally affect Americans of color. We have seen blatant voter suppression and attempted disenfranchisement of lawful voters from urban, i.e., predominately Black districts. We had no sooner turned the calendar than the entire world witnessed an attempted coup against the Legislative branch of our government perpetrated by domestic terrorists, a number of whom openly espoused racist and antisemitic rhetoric and slogans and who were aided and abetted by others with the same white supremacy proclivities and agenda.
Until this country has a reckoning with its racist past in some sort of meaningful way, I fear that it will ever be this way: three steps forward, two steps back. And I don’t have a lot of confidence in any such national awakening happening, I’ll be honest. But there is one thing about which I am certain: there will be Black Americans who rise to the top of their disciplines and fields despite the senseless and disgusting impediment of racism that is put in their paths.
But, I too have a dream: that one day we the public will be able to see all of the rich Black talent–in sports, in classical music, and in all other arts and sciences and human endeavors. There are certainly those figures who have excelled in spite of their detractors. But imagine those whose talents that we never were allowed to enjoy and experience simply because the hate and cruelty were too great for those individuals to persevere in their pursuit of greatness?
It’s not an understatement to say that I went into a depressive funk following the event of January 6 2021. But, while marking Martin Luther King, Jr.’s work and legacy about a week later, I tried to keep in mind his perseverance and the phrase he often included in his sermons:
“The arc of the moral universe is long, but it bends toward justice.“
If you watched the Inaugural ceremony, perhaps you were inspired by the animated reading and thought-provoking words of Amanda Gorman, National Youth Poet Laureate. I certainly was.
I’ve tried to retain the spirit of optimism that is so deeply embedded in her poem “The Hill We Climb,” an excert from which I include below:
And so we lift our gazes not to what stands between us, but what stands before us. We close the divide because we know, to put our future first, we must first put our differences aside. We lay down our arms so we can reach out our arms to one another. We seek harm to none and harmony for all. Let the globe, if nothing else, say this is true, that even as we grieved, we grew, that even as we hurt, we hoped, that even as we tired, we tried, that we’ll forever be tied together, victorious. Not because we will never again know defeat, but because we will never again sow division.
Ms. Gorman penned these words in response to the events of January 6th. Perhaps I would do well to look to her and Millenials like her–those who remain positive in the face of their generation’s less than bright immediate future and who tend toward idealism–for inspiration.
The author performing an off-stage solo from the wings during a performance of Pagliacci.
Yes, you’ve come to the right place. If you arrived here expecting to read something about the Metropolitan Opera, you have not clicked on this link in error.
As with so many things in the music world, current events at the Metropolitan Opera remind me of similar events in the world of baseball. And that’s this blog’s raison d’être.
I somehow could not find the inspiration for blogging about my team in 2020–a season dramatically reduced in the number of games and one in which I was not welcome in my usual seat in Section 318.
Setting aside the crux of the news for a moment—the unfair labor practice involved in my employer hiring non-union musicians (for the third time)– I would like to focus specifically on semantics.
Make no mistake: members of the MET Orchestra, MET Chorus, MET Music Staff, and MET Stage Crew truly value the solo artists who participated in the New Year’s Eve gala, and those who have participated in other virtual fundraising performances and regular performances at the MET. I think it’s safe to say that we ALL are inspired by their artistry and our thrilling collaborations with them. We also readily acknowledge and respect that many ticket buyers recognize their names but probably wouldn’t know the names of many, if any, individuals in the groups mentioned above.
But, as many of these artists are the first to admit, without these “unsung heroes”–the groups of employees supporting them and assisting them, opera simply would not happen, and those artists certainly would not be in a position to do their best work.
Thinking about the symbiotic relationship between solo artists and full-time employees at the MET made me think about a similar relationship in baseball. I wondered: How do those players who’ve played every single game for their team for the first two-thirds of the season feel when they find themselves in the dugout sitting next to some newly acquired star who’s brought in on a temporary basis?
Major League Baseball rules require that in order for a player to be eligible for postseason play, he must have been playing on the team in contention prior to September 1st. When it gets to mid-August, teams who have little or no chance of postseason play often field offers from other (winning) teams, and many times those teams end up dealing players to teams who are likely to make the postseason. Because these players have not played the bulk of the season with the team to whom they are traded, and because they often are not offered or do not accept a contract with that team once the postseason is over, these late-season acquisitions are known as “rentals.”
Baseball history is rife with just such “hired guns” who have, late in the season, gone from a losing team to a winning team in the latter’s hope of the player providing that extra spark needed to get them a World Series berth.
A player familiar to New York baseball fans, pitcher David Cone, found himself in the starring role of “gunslinger for hire” on several occasions during his career. He was traded by the Mets in late August of 1992 to the Toronto Blue Jays, earning World Series rings for himself and the team. He signed with the Royals in the off-season, then returned to Toronto in 1995, and was once again a late-season trade, dealt to the Yankees this time. You can read here about even more players who have played this somewhat unique role at times in their careers.
David Cone as a Met. (Photo by Ronald C. Modra/Getty Images)
While it’s very exciting–for the team as well as the fans–when these big boppers or pitching phenoms are brought in to “save the day,” winning is still dependent upon the play of the entire team. The players that have been wearing the uniform from the beginning of the season, grinding it out, game after game–these are the players that got the team its winning record. Not only that, but chances are good that that star player will not be on the team when Spring Training begins in February, regardless of his postseason performance.
Similarly, there’s no question that solo artists are the ones that most often produce the high C’s, the inimitable concluding pianissimo high note that tapers to nothing, the character representation that is so authentic that one forgets that this is theater. Those of us working in the house every day and every night do not begrudge the resulting plaudits, the cheers at the end of arias, nor the curtain calls at the end. They are justly deserved and, many times, many of us in the pit and in the wings are also openly cheering and applauding along with the audience.
However, calling any of these solo artists “MET Stars” seems somewhat misleading and disingenuous to me.
“… how is any solo artist a ‘MET Star’ any more than he or she is a ‘Covent Garden star,’ a ‘Wiener Staatsoper Star,’ a Bayerische Staatsoper star,’ or a ‘La Scala star?’”
For one thing, the MET cannot make sole claim to these artists nor how they are received; these artists experience the same merited accolades everywhere they perform. By design, their profession dictates that they travel to and sing in MANY opera houses and halls. And, incidentally, solo artists negotiate and sign their own individual contracts with each venue, i.e., they are not employees of any one opera house but are classified and paid as independent contractors.
Considering that, how is any solo artist a “MET Star” any more than he or she is a “Covent Garden star,” a “Wiener Staatsoper Star,” a Bayerische Staatsoper star,” or a “La Scala star?”
Meanwhile, the Metropolitan Opera’s full-time employees are there day after day, night after night, and season after season, performing our OWN feats of technical and aesthetic brilliance.
Many of us, myself included, were here well before some of these artists made their MET debuts. And many of us will be here long after they retire. Some of us played and worked at the OLD MET (which closed its doors fifty-five years ago!)
So, secondly, doesn’t that make full-time tenured employees stars in our own right?
Stars come and go. Meanwhile, the rest of us have been busy playing, singing, dancing, rehearsing, accompanying, coaching, prompting, pounding nails, moving sets, wiring, powering, lighting, storing and handing out essential props, calling personnel to the stage for the smooth execution of the opera without unnecessary traffic jams in the wings or missing characters or props, sending people onstage at JUST the right moment, perfectly timed to the music and action—and delaying such when occasionally needed for various reasons, arranging and moving chairs and stands and delicate equipment like harps, pianos, and percussion equipment, securing sheet music for every opera, making sure all cuts or changes are made for EVERY person—solo artists, chorus members, orchestra personnel, conductors, and retrieving parts to make additional changes when they inevitably happen prior to and during the rehearsal period for any number of reasons—a conductor wants to make or open a cut, a singer requests that an aria be transposed, stage action necessitates more or less music, etc. We are also taking measurements, cutting fabric, sewing costumes, repairing existing costumes, touching up scenery, making wigs, putting makeup on cast members, fitting cast members into costumes, laundering costumes, ironing costumes, meeting with directors about their ideas for sets and costumes, loading sets on trucks to be taken to storage units in New Jersey…whew! I’m out of breath!
“…we are a well-oiled machine that has been decades in the making.”
If this all sounds complicated, trust me: it IS. If it sounds like there are a lot of different groups of folks charged with a lot of responsibility, there ARE.But because every one of these employees is the crème de la crème in their respective fields, most of the time, the effort involved in any one performance is hidden from view. It’s “all in a day’s work” for us: our art or craft has been refined and honed through years and years of doing what we do and passing along the best of those traditions to those who come in to the MET family either directly from school or from other theaters.
In short, we are a well-oiled machine that has been decades in the making.
To paraphrase the great conductor Arturo Toscanini, perhaps the only true stars are in heaven.
So, then. Are WE the MET Stars?
To paraphrase the great conductor Arturo Toscanini, perhaps the only true stars are in heaven.
Mets fans who are readers of mainstream and social media no doubt found many detailed tributes to Al Jackson today. Jackson, an original Met, passed away yesterday at the age of eighty-three. My husband, a rabid reader in general and a consistent consumer of Mets-related media, began reading the tributes to Jackson as they began to pour in online late last night. At that time, he remarked to me, “It appears to me that every beat writer and Mets blogger has his or her own personal Al Jackson story.”
Providing consistently insightful, elegantly written, and often moving posts chronicling all things Mets, Greg Prince of Faith and Fear in Flushing did not disappoint in his tribute. In it, he alludes to the late pitcher’s longevity and devotion to the Mets. Prince’s detailed description of Jackson’s long tenure with the team, along with the title of the post–“Family Man”–conjured, for this reader, an image of an athlete who had experienced challenges resembling those of a parent.
Jackson had been there from the team’s conception, earliest contractions and painful birth, had experienced the mind-numbing weariness and frequent exasperation that accompanied its infancy, had endured the “terrible twos” (and “threes”), its hormone-addled adolescence, and had stayed long enough to witness the team reach some manner of maturity and responsibility.
Jackson was one of thirteen children. He is survived by two sons and two grandsons. Similarly, his baseball “family tree” has many branches with countless connections to current and former players, coaches, staff, and media personnel.
In the very same year that the Mets were born in New York, I was born in Kansas. My connection with the Mets family would come much later in my adult life. Even so, I too have an Al Jackson story:
My family and I travelled to Port Saint Lucie for Mets Spring Training games in 2011. Having seen Al Jackson with the other pitching coaches seated near the mounds just outside the third base line, my husband pointed out Jackson to my daughter and me. He told us that he had seen Jackson play and that Jackson had been an original Met.
Armed with this info, before the start of the game, my daughter walked down to the row of seats just above where Jackson was seated, got his attention, and politely asked him for an autograph.
He obliged, signing the baseball she proffered. As he did so, she mentioned that her Dad had seen him pitch for the Mets. According to her, Jackson smiled broadly, wryly asking, “Are you sure that wasn’t your GRANDDADDY who saw me pitch?!”
These photos captured that special moment. May Al Jackson’s family and friends be blessed and comforted with the memory of their own Al Jackson stories.
Fifty years ago today, Tommie Agee hits a walkoff homer (we didn’t know the term at the time) off Juan Marichal in the 14th inning to beat the Giants 1-0. Marichal was the starting pitcher and threw a complete game: 151 pitches. Imagine THAT today!
We just celebrated the 1969 World Champion New York Mets with a marvelous ceremony at Citi Field. Unfortunately, Tom Seaver could not be there. It was announced in March that Seaver, suffering from dementia caused by Lyme Disease, was retiring from public life. But he was there in spirit–and with his daughters and grandchildren in attendance, when the Mets announced the new address for Citi Field at 41 Seaver Way in a ceremony last week.
There are countless memories of that 1969 season that remain with me. Maybe the most exciting one of all took place 50 years ago tomorrow–July 9, 1969, when Seaver took a perfect game into the 9th inning against the first place Cubs, a team with 3 Hall of Famers in their starting 8 (Santo, Banks, Williams). The Mets had won the day before with 3 runs in the 9th inning off another Hall of Famer, Ferguson Jenkins. A crowd of over 59,000–far beyond the seating capacity of Shea Stadium, was there to witness Seaver’s gem.
The Voice of the Mets, Howie Rose, was in attendance that night and wrote about it brilliantly in his book, Put it in the Book. He had been attending Mets games since 1962, and had never seen anything like it.
Seaver retired the first 25 batters, needing only 2 more outs to achieve perfection. To that date, 50 years ago, there had only been seven perfect games pitched in the modern (post-1900) era. In fact, there had been no perfect games pitched in the regular season between 1922 (Charlie Robertson of the White Sox) and 1964 (Jim Bunning of the Phillies against the Mets at Shea); Don Larsen’s perfect game in 1956 World Series was the only one that took place in 42 years. This eleven year old Mets fan knew enough baseball history to realize what was happening, and how rare the feat actually was.
After Randy Hundley tried to bunt his way on base leading off the ninth (Seaver threw him out), Jimmy Qualls, a rookie, stepped to the plate. He was playing only because Don Young, the regular CF, had been castigated by Leo Durocher and his Cubs teammates for losing the previous day’s games. Qualls ruined the perfect game by slicing a line drive single to left center field. Seaver got the next two outs and completed a one hit shutout.
My daughter in cognito in Section 318. The photo was taken in September of 2013, but is appropriate for July 2019.
It’s the All-Star Break and this Mets blogger is about as inspired and productive as her team. Sigh…
I am, however, proud to announce that Garry Spector, inspired from the previous week’s 1969 Anniversary celebrations, will be a guest blogger on this site in the very near future!
If you are interested in the past and history beyond the realm of baseball, I invite you to view a second blog I created today which is to be informed by and devoted to another of my passions–genealogy.
Check it out and, if you like what you see, please subscribe!
In 2005, my family and I purchased a Mets partial season ticket plan. A lot of wonderful things were to follow.
Some of them even involved the games themselves.
The following year, anticipating the ticket demand resulting from the team’s upcoming move from Shea Stadium to Citi Field, we ponied up and became full season ticket holders. We have continued to renew our plan every year since then.
At first, my husband and I didn’t always see as much of the games as we might have liked, our young daughter’s attention span often limiting us to four or five innings at most. Her interest–and longevity–increased with age. She learned more about the game and its history. She read and learned about our players and their positions, and she developed a particular affinity for certain players. Her involvement with and appreciation for baseball reached an even higher level when her father taught her how to score and she began keeping a score book.
With each passing year and season, our shared experiences have brought our family closer together. We have made new friendships—with those regulars seated near us, with members of the media (particularly the Mets Radio personnel), with members of the Citi Field Season Ticket Account Services staff, as well as with members of the Security detail and Concessions staff. Some members of our “summer family” have become year-round friends. We have made road trips to see the Mets, our travels taking us to see them play in every single National League ballpark and even a few American League parks. Those road trips have been coupled with side trips to historical and cultural attractions in those cities and have provided opportunities to see family and friends in the area.
From a personal standpoint, my interest in the Mets rekindled my passion for writing, resulting in the creation of this very blog. Going to an average of eighty games a year, I found myself looking for images that were unique to each game or home stand and wanting very much to document what I saw. I was inspired to take photography classes, and I acquired more sophisticated equipment. The results were images that were a step above those I had previously shot: in composition, control, and resolution.
With years of photos on my hard drive, it took me a while to assemble some of my favorite photos of David Wright for this slide show. These photos (and videos) were shot during games and batting practice at Shea Stadium, Citi Field, and in Port St. Lucie; at RFK Stadium and Nationals Park; at Dolphin Stadium and Marlins Park; and at Citizens Bank Park, Turner Field, Wrigley Field, Great American Ballpark, Miller Park, PNC Park, A T & T Park, PetCo Park, Dodger Stadium, and Minute Maid Park, as well as at special Full Season Ticket Holder events.
Because my family and I have been Mets season ticket holders since just about the time David Wright came up to the big leagues, in some ways it feels like we watched him “grow up” in Queens. Being at Citi Field for his final game and farewell to Mets fans this past September—after watching him play his entire Major League career with our team–it was impossible not to shed a tear.
Commentary on baseball, the Mets in particular, from the perspective of a professional orchestral musician is what one usually finds on this site. This particular post, though, will focus on a colleague and close friend of mine and the ways in which he was a great “teammate.”
My orchestra has lost a great musician and colleague. Rich Dallessio was a freelance oboist who played for numerous orchestras here in New York, most notably the New York City Ballet. He was also a frequent substitute player with us at the Metropolitan Opera. Rich battled liver cancer for almost an entire year; he passed away last week.
Substitute players at the MET and other professional music ensembles, including Broadway shows, are like bench players: they are called on in a pinch and often don’t have a lot of time to prepare for the gig. Veteran ballplayers often shine when given those opportunities, as did Rich.
If a regular MET musician called in sick to a rehearsal or performance at the last minute, Rich could be relied upon to answer his cellphone quickly and rearrange his schedule in order to be of assistance. Once he got to the MET, he would play whatever part was needed, without any fuss, making for a seamless performance that put everyone around him at ease, not the least of whom was the Orchestra Manager who is responsible for “fielding” a full orchestra every night!
Rich was an exceptionally fine player and an inspiring musician. He also had many years of experience playing our somewhat unique repertoire, thereby making him an especially valuable commodity to the wind section of the MET.
In addition, he was, hands-down, the finest sight-reader I have ever met. I remember one performance in particular that had all of us in the orchestra, the conductor included, in awe.
Some years ago, our regular English horn player called in sick to a performance of Strauss’s Die Frau ohne Schattten. Rich was asked to come in to sight-read the part for the performance, and he bravely took up the challenge.
All of Strauss’s operas feature extremely challenging virtuosic orchestral writing, often in very unusual keys. Beyond the inherent difficulty of the part itself was the fact that it had been many years since this lesser-known and less frequently performed opera had been presented at the MET. Rich had not played any of the rehearsals of the opera that season nor had he played any previous performances in the run.
The entire night, Rich was his usual unflappable, solid, reliable self. He never lost his place, which is remarkable in and of itself, but he also played the numerous solos (which he was hearing for the first time as he was playing them!) with sensitivity and nuance. It was a stunning performance that many of us in the wind section still speak of to this day.
Even as a sub, Rich certainly had the chops for solo English horn and solo oboe playing. When he found himself in the Principal chair, there was nothing apologetic or timid about his playing whatsoever. And yet, he could just as easily assume the role of Second Oboe and deftly defer to the Principal player, matching pitch, note lengths, volume, and style without ever a word being exchanged between the two players.
I know this because he played Second Oboe to me. And I played Second Oboe to him as well.
And that’s because Rich knew the joy that being a part—any part—of a winning team can be. It really didn’t matter to him where he sat or what part he played. He was in it for the team. “Put me in coach! I’m ready to play today.”
He was a utility player on the order of former Mets Kelly Johnson or Justin Turner. And, as in baseball, a player who can field more than one position can be of tremendous value, especially if he/she can perform well in the clutch. Rich was that guy.
Rich loved being part of a team. And he loved playing music. And he had an infectious laugh. I loved when all of those things came together—which they often did.
I’ll never forget the times we both played onstage in the Don Giovanni bandas together. Mozart’s Don Giovanni calls for small instrumental ensembles—bandas—in each of the opera’s two acts. The score calls for two onstage oboes in both acts. The musicians appear onstage and in costume and, for that reason, they are often involved at least peripherally in the staging.
Rich was involved in playing the Don Giovanni bandas just about every time the opera was performed at the MET. The other onstage oboe assignment usually fell to a colleague of mine, but in 1997, I lucked into my first and (so far at least) only run of performances of Don Giovanni in which I did not play in the pit but had the pleasure of playing onstage in costume along with Rich.
It was always a delight to play with Rich: his sound had a spinning, vibrant quality that reminded me of a really good coloratura soprano—Judith Blegen, Kathleen Battle, Barbara Bonney. It was a sound that was very similar to what I aim for myself, actually. That’s probably one of the reasons it was always such a pleasure playing with him and why blending with each other’s sound was so effortless.
These performances, then, were a treat for me, musically. But that was only the half of it. The fun of being in costume and part of the stage action was never lost on Rich, even after many performances of this work. Once I had gotten a few performances under my belt and became more comfortable onstage, we both had even more fun.
Near the end of Act I, Giovanni is hosting a party at which many instrumentalists are playing, e.g., the banda. Giovanni dances with Zerlina and leads her into an adjoining room to try to seduce her. She screams for help and pandemonium ensues about the time our music has ended at which time we were instructed to react in surprise and exit stage right.
While we always followed our stage directions, it seemed that with every performance, Rich and I took a little more poetic license, if you will, and made more of our very little time onstage as court musicians than we had in the previous performance. Our looks of astonishment became ever more exaggerated—wide-eyed, mouths agape. We played off of each other: he looked left, I looked right, each of us feigning an intense curiosity as to what had prompted Zerlina’s cries. While the rest of the musicians had shrugged their shoulders in a bored manner and shuffled offstage, he and I pantomimed exaggerated and extended inquisitiveness about the kerfuffle resulting in our being the last banda members to exit the stage.
I don’t think this was apparent to anyone else, and the Stage Manager certainly didn’t need to come after us with a hook, but we definitely had some great times and some hearty laughs, channeling our inner thespians for those two nights every week when that opera was being performed that season.
Mozart: Don Giovanni, Act II – Metropolitan Opera, 1997 Rich Dallessio, front row, left; Susan Laney Spector, front row, center. Photo @Beth Bergman
Rich was a mirth-filled, down-to-earth, kind and generous person. As fine as his oboe-playing was, he was an even finer human being. He will be missed at the MET, at the NYC Ballet and other ensembles in which he played, and by all of his many students to whom he devoted much time and energy.
By Garry Spector, Guest Blogger
Commentary on baseball, the Mets in particular, from the perspective of a professional orchestral musician is what one usually finds on this site. This particular post, though, will focus on a colleague and close friend of mine and the ways in which he was a great “teammate.”
Perfect Pitch 
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